(no subject)
She begins by tying her long hair back with iron bands, the chants for the magic still pouring from her voice. She can not remember the last time she sat, the last moment she was silent. A single squeeze of her hand clamps the bands tightly, her hair will not be in her way as she works. The thick braids, piled on her head and held, are stable.
She begins, and Niflheim rings with iron on iron as the red glow offers a preview of Ragnarok still to come.
“All things die \ Oh love of mine
This is not a threat \ But promise
In time all \ Will perish even
You whom are \ My beloved one
A promise \ For though you
Will die as well \ First will
Fall your enemies.”
Hela stands, chanting and singing without pause, as the iron becomes the rawest form of a blade. Each tap of the hammer is another word in the chant, each word is an iota of power. Long, although tiny in her hands. Plain, it needs no frills to show how deadly it could be. It takes shape, iron into steel, steel into sword, and it holds the simple elegance of a claw, of a tooth, of something made to kill.
Even when a coal jumped from the flames and lit her skirts, she worked without pause. The watching dead with memory left shuddered, and she ignored it even as she was turned into a pillar of flame; molten iron running down her flanks as the bands in her hair melted from the heat.
“They will fall like \ Fat cut by fire
As leaves in the wind \ They shall fall
As stormed battered \ Ships on rocks they
Shall break \ Before you.”
She did not pause to put her hair up rather ignoring the strands, which would flash and be destroyed if she were anything but a goddess, as they unraveled from their braids and floated around.
“And your pyre \ Will seem a herald
A vision of \ Yet-to-come
Predicing the fires of \ Ragnarok.
All things, \ Beloved, die
Yet you will not be \ Among the first.”
Someday hell will be known as a place of fire. Perhaps this is where that started; with Hel as a burning pillar. The air, the small things dwelling in it, burn screaming. Hel merely works and chants.
She tempers it. In the waters that feed Yggdrasil, in the ice and acid. Tempers, and begins again. Spells are chanted, chanted, sung. Into every steamed drop of water, pound of hammer, crackle of coal.
“Fear shall be \ Your right hand
Rage your \ Left hand be
You will be called \ Madman’s Heart
Berserker Tooth \ Hela’s Folly
Whisper of Death \ Kiss of Pain.”
Blessings and wardings, and death. She sings death into the blade, on a level so far past the magics of the Runes that only the most suicidal of Men would dare try. Only the Dwarves have mastered the skills of this magic, and even the gods must work hard to reach what Dwarves have created.
The magics of the godkillers, and more. Hel’s magics, pain, agony, the slitting and spitting of flesh. The cold of knowing that paradise will never belong to the dying, that what is touched by Hela’s sword, belongs to Hela. She chants into the sword the essence of herself; all that she shares with Freja, and all that makes Freja a pale shadow of Hel.
“Men shall tremble \ At your name
Giants quail \ When shown you
Even those called \ Gods
Will fall silent \ When you pass.”
There is no glory in the sword she chants, there is no honor or redemption.
She begins, and Niflheim rings with iron on iron as the red glow offers a preview of Ragnarok still to come.
“All things die \ Oh love of mine
This is not a threat \ But promise
In time all \ Will perish even
You whom are \ My beloved one
A promise \ For though you
Will die as well \ First will
Fall your enemies.”
Hela stands, chanting and singing without pause, as the iron becomes the rawest form of a blade. Each tap of the hammer is another word in the chant, each word is an iota of power. Long, although tiny in her hands. Plain, it needs no frills to show how deadly it could be. It takes shape, iron into steel, steel into sword, and it holds the simple elegance of a claw, of a tooth, of something made to kill.
Even when a coal jumped from the flames and lit her skirts, she worked without pause. The watching dead with memory left shuddered, and she ignored it even as she was turned into a pillar of flame; molten iron running down her flanks as the bands in her hair melted from the heat.
“They will fall like \ Fat cut by fire
As leaves in the wind \ They shall fall
As stormed battered \ Ships on rocks they
Shall break \ Before you.”
She did not pause to put her hair up rather ignoring the strands, which would flash and be destroyed if she were anything but a goddess, as they unraveled from their braids and floated around.
“And your pyre \ Will seem a herald
A vision of \ Yet-to-come
Predicing the fires of \ Ragnarok.
All things, \ Beloved, die
Yet you will not be \ Among the first.”
Someday hell will be known as a place of fire. Perhaps this is where that started; with Hel as a burning pillar. The air, the small things dwelling in it, burn screaming. Hel merely works and chants.
She tempers it. In the waters that feed Yggdrasil, in the ice and acid. Tempers, and begins again. Spells are chanted, chanted, sung. Into every steamed drop of water, pound of hammer, crackle of coal.
“Fear shall be \ Your right hand
Rage your \ Left hand be
You will be called \ Madman’s Heart
Berserker Tooth \ Hela’s Folly
Whisper of Death \ Kiss of Pain.”
Blessings and wardings, and death. She sings death into the blade, on a level so far past the magics of the Runes that only the most suicidal of Men would dare try. Only the Dwarves have mastered the skills of this magic, and even the gods must work hard to reach what Dwarves have created.
The magics of the godkillers, and more. Hel’s magics, pain, agony, the slitting and spitting of flesh. The cold of knowing that paradise will never belong to the dying, that what is touched by Hela’s sword, belongs to Hela. She chants into the sword the essence of herself; all that she shares with Freja, and all that makes Freja a pale shadow of Hel.
“Men shall tremble \ At your name
Giants quail \ When shown you
Even those called \ Gods
Will fall silent \ When you pass.”
There is no glory in the sword she chants, there is no honor or redemption.